


Runaway

by orphan_account



Series: Two Brothers Holmes [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Babysitting, Big Brother Mycroft, Discipline, Gen, Kid!Lock, Kidlock, M/M, Spanking, Teenlock, babysitter, teen!lock, wooden spoon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 19:13:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1790104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock needs a babysitter, Mycroft is an ace spanker and Greg is slightly uncomfortable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Runaway

Nineteen year old Mycroft Holmes sat in the living room of his home, his eyebrows cocked and his arms folded firmly, as Sherlock shouted.

“It's not _fair_ , Mycroft – you were left home alone when you were twelve, why do I have to have a bloody babysitter?”

“Because of things like this.” Mycroft instantly replied, his eyes penetrating Sherlock in a way which made the younger Holmes most uncomfortable. “You throw tantrums and make bad choices and you have the gall to whinge at _me_ that you're mature.”

“I'm not throwing a tantrum!” Sherlock replied challengingly, stamping his foot to emphasise his point. “And anyway, why does it have to be your boyfriend who watches me?”

Mycroft's cheeks tinged pink. “Because I have a serious government roll to fulfil on very short notice, and Greg was the only person free! I warn you, Sherlock, if you are rude to Greg or you take advantage of-”

Sherlock giggled. Actually giggled. Forgetting his speech, Mycroft grabbed his brother's arm and yanked him up, their faces inches from each other.

“What's funny, brother mine?” Mycroft whispered, twisting Sherlock's arm so that he let out a yelp.

“Nothing, nothing.” Sherlock replied, his voice pained. “Now let go of my arm.”

“Tell me what you were laughing at.” Mycroft, despite still being a teenager, had a very commanding voice when he wanted to.

“It was immature, nothing really – you said take advantage of, and due to the sexual conditioning of my sense of humour at school, it made me think of yourself and Greg having sex.”

Mycroft shook his head and let go of his brother's arm, tossing him back on the sofa. “If you are rude to Greg, or you  _take advantage of_ his good nature, you will regret it every time you sit down for a week.”

Sherlock looked up at Mycroft, his face half-cocky, half-obstinant. “I still don't see why I need a babysitter.”

“You wouldn't. Now go and get dressed, he'll be here in a few minutes and I really must get ready to leave.”

* * *

 

Mycroft still couldn't quite believe how lucky he was that Greg Lestrade, two years his senior, had asked him to accompany him to the library three years previously, when they were both still at school. While Mycroft generally didn't like people, Greg had a good, inquiring mind and was more intelligent than most people, but with a certain level of...humanity which made him irresistible.

To him, anyway.

“Hey, Mycroft.” Greg smiled as he entered the house, before leaning forwards and kissing Mycroft gently, one eye swivelling around for Sherlock. He hadn't met him since he'd left school two and a half years previously, and even then he'd only seen him about. “I've missed you, this last week.”

“I've missed you as well, Greg.” Mycroft replied genuinely. Somehow, Greg had a way of making him more human, and making his emotions rise to the surface. Thinking of Sherlock's disgust (“I don't care that you're gay, Mycroft, I just don't particularly want to see the person that you stick your penis into on a regular basis.”), he laced his fingers into Greg's and pulled the older man into the house properly, leading him to the kitchen where he had already prepared a pot of tea. Sherlock was sat at the table, moodily playing with a biscuit.

“Hi, Sherlock!” Greg smiled enthusiastically, holding out a hand to shake. Eyeing him for a second, and noticing his other hand linked with his brother, Sherlock dumped the half-crumpled biscuit into it and mooched off upstairs, leaving a surprised Greg and a fuming Mycroft.

“I'm sorry, Greg – let me take that to the bin. Here, I've got five minutes for a cup of tea before I go, and you might want some Sherlock advice.”

* * *

 

Tea poured and steaming, the men sat opposite each other, listening to Sherlock blasting out Mozart on his record player. Generally, Mozart was quite pleasant to listen to, but at that volume it shook the house. Mycroft thanked whatever deity had made his parents pick this house that their home had no others around it for at least two hundred metres.

“Is he always like this?” Greg asked curiously, staring up at the ceiling which was shaking slightly. Mycroft smirked.

“He's worse whenever our parents go on holiday – even after I've asserted my authority, he still continues to act as though there's no one in charge. Don't worry, Greg – just stay down here and make sure he eats something for lunch, and it'll be fine. If he's insubordinate or anything along those lines, let me know when I get home and I'll deal with it. I should only be a couple of hours, thankfully for you.”

Greg grinned at his boyfriend, putting his hand across the table and grabbing Mycroft's. The younger man had been twisting his fingers together unconsciously, his only physical indicator of anxiety. “I'm sure me and Sherlock will get along well. Don't worry, Mycroft – I used to have to babysit my sisters frequently, and there were five of them. How hard can one snotty little twelve year old get?”

Laughing out loud, Mycroft took a sip of tea. “Thank you for this, Greg. I doubt you'll do it again, though.”

* * *

 

Before leaving, Mycroft slipped upstairs to his brother's room and opened the door without knocking. Sherlock was moodily throwing a ball at the ceiling and catching it again while drumming his foot along to the tune coming from his old, rather magnificent record player.

“Sherlock, you will remove that record now and you will not play any more music whilst I am gone. If I hear that you have, there will be consequences for your actions.”

Sherlock looked up, eyebrows raised to his brother, still continuing to throw and catch the ball. “No.”

Although Sherlock frequently argued with Mycroft when left under his supervision, he very rarely said an outright 'no' to an order. He knew all too well what happened when he did, and had no eagerness to repeat it. Mycroft's own eyebrows cocked, and his arms folded tightly across his chest. Why was Sherlock being so bloody stubborn about Greg being in the house? 

“Sherlock, unless you want a smacking right now, where Greg can hear, you are going to turn that record player down!”

Mycroft avoided shouting at Sherlock wherever possible – as young children, their parents rarely shouted at them, because it seemed to distress both of them more than even a spanking. On occasion, however, it was hard for Mycroft to control his volume. Plus, the record player really was deafening in the room.

“No. It's my music and you're not even going to be here to hear it.”

In a flash, Mycroft crossed the room, roughly lowering the volume dial on the record player before yanking Sherlock up and sitting down onto his bed. In seconds, the younger boy was over Mycroft's knee, having his trousers and underwear yanked down.

_Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!_

“You _will_ behave well for Greg, and you will keep your music down. If I get a single report of bad behaviour whilst I'm gone, we will continue this discussion later on with my belt!”

_Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!_

Mycroft hated spanking Sherlock, especially as the boy only really seemed to settle after a really harsh spanking and generally required much tougher discipline than Mycroft ever had.

“Your behaviour this morning has been abominable, and I won't put up with it! During the time when I'm gone, you can write up 'I will be respectful to my elders' two hundred times to make sure the message really sinks in!”

_Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!_

Generally, during a spanking from Mycroft, Sherlock would stay resolutely stoic until it really began to hurt. Today, however, he suddenly dissolved into tears. Seeing that something was clearly wrong, and sighing internally, Mycroft decided to finish the short but harsh spanking as quickly as possible.

_Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!_

When Mycroft stopped, he could feel Sherlock's chest heaving against him, and he quickly helped him up.

“Sherlock, surely it didn't hurt that much. You've taken far worse more stoically than that.”

Snivelling, Sherlock dragged a hand across his eyes and tried to adopt a snooty expression.

“Ever since you met Greg, you've either been working or with him – do you remember when we used to read together, or do experiments together? I never see you, and now I sound like a whiny toddler!” Sherlock replied. “I miss when we didn't argue every time we spoke, and he is the cause of me missing that.”

Mycroft laughed, and then immediately felt bad. “Brother mine, do be reasonable. I'm nineteen, and I will be moving soon – you can't expect me to spend as much time with you as I did when we were much younger. As for Greg, I only see him two or three times a week – most of my time is spent assisting the British government, so blame Margaret Thatcher rather than Greg!”

Sherlock's tearful face broke into a slight smile. “I blame Margaret Thatcher for a lot of things anyway, she's an appalling woman. Hopefully, someone else will be elected soon.”

“Trust me, brother, I have serious doubts about her competence in her role any more. The time will come. Now, I really must go – don't forget to do your lines!”

Mycroft ruffled the twelve year old's hair as he extracted himself from the kind of side-hug he had ended up in and left the room. Really, despite his idiocy, Sherlock could be quite good company.

* * *

 

When Mycroft arrived home just under three hours later, he was alarmed to see a very pale looking Greg standing in the front garden. As soon as Mycroft parked, Greg briskly came over to the car, biting his lip.

“Sherlock had been brilliant for the first hour, getting on with whatever he was writing really quietly. Then when I told him to have some lunch, he suddenly went absolutely insane, asking me if I was stupid and couldn't I see he was working on an experiment. We argued, and eventually I lost my temper with him and I smacked him. He looked at me like I'd shot him and then ran off out of the backdoor, and oh god Mycroft I'm sorry but I can't find him.”

Mycroft glared grimly towards the house, as if Sherlock was in it, before climbing out of his car. “Don't worry, Greg, he's done this before – one time our Grandmother interrupted some experiment which he needed silence for, and he did precisely the same thing. She smacked him too, and he rushed off then as well. You did the right thing, don't worry.”

Greg still looked utterly crestfallen, but slightly relieved. “I've looked all over the garden and in the area and I can't find him.”

Mycroft smiled. “I know where he is, and it's fine – if he knows what's good for him, he'll be back within an hour or so.”

Greg nodded, looking even more relieved. “I'm sorry he left on my watch, though.”

Mycroft was usually not one for spontaneous affection, even with Greg, who he trusted more than anyone else. However, he could see how genuinely scared Greg had been for his reaction, and swiftly he leant forwards and kissed Greg, his hands going to the older man's waist. Greg grinned into his mouth before kissing back, one hand reaching down and pinching Mycroft's bum.

“I'll tell your mother that you've been canoodling with some no-good layabout in clear daylight, Mycroft Holmes!” a voice suddenly shrieked. It was Miss Simpson, the person who lived closest to the Holmes residence, who was well known for being an awful sneak. The two broke apart, Mycroft grinning.

“You do that, Miss Simpson!” he cried back. “You do that!”

* * *

 

As the day turned into dusk and Greg left the house, Mycroft began to feel slightly concerned for his brother. He had one hiding place and one hiding place only: an old, half-broken barn situated just outside of the wide fence around their small garden, which was all but abandoned by the owner of the field beside them. Sherlock would occasionally go there to do work if the house was too 'deafening' (usually during family gatherings) or to hide if he knew he was in trouble.

The time ticked on and Sherlock was gradually getting deeper and deeper in trouble.

Eventually, eight in the evening struck and Mycroft sighed. Evidently Sherlock was planning on sneaking back after dark and then hotly denying Greg's accusations the next day. Well, he would have to go and get him, then. Pushing embarrassingly muddy wellies onto his feet which he believed belonged to his mother, he slipped out of the back door. He didn't particularly want to have to walk all the way around the fence marking their garden and then halfway across a field in the darkness, so it would be faster to use Sherlock's shortcut. The fence had a couple of weak wooden panels, which would pull aside quite easily when manipulated to reveal a person-sized gap. After that, the barn was only a few steps. Grimly, he decided to surprise Sherlock, who was totally unaware that he knew of his hiding place: he knocked on the door of the barn.

* * *

 

Sherlock had had a horribly boring afternoon. While he kept a tatty blanket, a couple of books and a chocolate bar in a huge Tupperware tub in the corner of the disused barn, he had read the books several times each and was thoroughly sick of them. Eating the chocolate provided a distraction for a mere minute, and so eventually he just curled up in the blanket, trying to calculate how tall the barn was without actually measuring it. Several times he thought of going home, but the idiocy of his actions was beginning to strike him. He had been deep into his experiment (lines long forgotten) and had snapped, which probably would have been fine by itself, but some of the names he had called Greg were disgusting, and he regretted them. Plus, he was beginning to see that awful human emotion, guilt, because the single smack that Greg had doled out didn't seem to equate to the horrible things he had said – he'd barely even felt it.

_Knock knock!_

Just as Sherlock had stood up, ready to go home and face the music, there had been a rap at the door of the barn. Judging by the slight shadow cast under the door of the barn, it was someone well-built and tall, probably a man. The farmer, perhaps? With a gulp, he opened the door.

Mycroft.

“Home, now.” Mycroft sharply said. Grabbing Sherlock's arm he dragged the boy back to the house, congratulating his own self-restraint at not smacking Sherlock there and then.

* * *

 

As soon as they entered the house, Mycroft saw how pale and frightened looking Sherlock was – he was evidently cold, hungry and scared for his fate.

“You're going to have some dinner and a shower, and then we're going to have a discussion about appropriate behaviour with your _babysitter_ and why you don't run away.” Mycroft kept his voice cold and detached, his sympathy almost vanishing for Sherlock when he noticed traces of chocolate around the boy's mouth. Moving towards the pot of soup which he had prepared for their dinner, he was thankful that it was still hot and he wouldn't have to delay the inevitable for too long. Equally, Sherlock seemed to have picked up the appetite of a wolf during the hours he had been in the barn (he hadn't eaten, except for his chocolate bar, since breakfast, so perhaps it was understandable) and managed to get through two bowls of soup, three slices of buttered bread and a hefty handful of grated cheese before he was satisfied. He looked considerably better once he had food inside of him and Mycroft almost considered making him forgo the shower until after the punishment, but reconsidered when he saw how cold Sherlock was. He also looked absolutely exhausted, which was probably more down to his ridiculous habit of staying up late to do experiments than anything else. Perhaps the punishment could wait until the morning...

As Sherlock placed his bowl into the hefty, old-fashioned dishwasher which could barely wash a streak off of a plate, Mycroft satiated himself with a swift smack to the boy's bottom, which elicited an outraged yelp.

“Shower and then go to bed. You're too tired and I'm too angry to do this now.”

Sighing heavily, Sherlock stomped upstairs, one hand gingerly rubbing his bottom – that smack had been _hard_!

* * *

 

When Mycroft woke up, he felt as if something had woken him. A presence. With his parents on holiday (well, his father on a work trip to Egypt and his mother on holiday with him), the only other person in the house was Sherlock, and even he wouldn't be mad enough to wake him up for no reason – he'd tried that once before, when he was about six and Mycroft thirteen, and he'd ended up with a sore bottom because Mycroft had screamed so loudly his parents woke up. Groaning with tiredness, he flicked on his bedside lamp, squinting in the sudden light.

Sherlock was standing beside his bed, looking rather ghostly with his pale skin and baggy pyjamas.

“What on earth could you possibly want at this time?” Mycroft moaned, shielding his eyes from his lamp.

“Unfortunately, I am afflicted with my own humanity, and I feel guilty for what I said to Greg. I haven't slept but due to my sleep patterns of the previous week, I really can't do with another bad night. I need you to punish me now so that I can go to bed.”

Mycroft blinked, his brain taking a millisecond longer than usual to process Sherlock's unusual words due to his own exhaustion. When it sank in, he didn't have the heart to deny Sherlock's request and send him back to bed.

“Alright, then. Give me five minutes and I'll be in your room.”

Sherlock really was a ghost as he slipped away, seeming to vanish in seconds. Stumbling, and with a yawn, Mycroft ambled to the bathroom to wash his face with cold water and properly wake himself up. He had already decided upon Sherlock's punishment: a really good smacking with a wooden spoon, and the lines which he had neglected to do but doubled. The lines could wait for tomorrow, but Mycroft found himself entering his mother's bedroom at half past one at night to fetch her special spanking spoon.

It was a strange night.

* * *

 

It was perhaps stranger still when he entered Sherlock's room and found him standing quietly, his duvet folded neatly back so that it wouldn't get in the way of punishment. Usually, Sherlock fought tooth and nail to avoid punishment, despite how frequently he was punished.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, Mycroft?”

“May I ask what exactly you said to Greg? He didn't mention the specifics, but I take it that you weren't particularly pleasant as you very rarely feel guilty.”

Sherlock swallowed, and shifted from foot to foot.

“I hit his weak spot – his sexual orientation. I called him all kinds of unpleasant, homophobic terms. I have no problem insulting people but things such as gender, sexual orientation, things that can't be helped, I feel that I shouldn't attack. I feel guilty because my actions were against my own personal rules of insulting people, and they may have affected him.”

No wonder Greg had smacked him. If Sherlock had ever been homophobic to him, Mycroft was fairly certain that he would have knocked seven bells out of him. However, he could see how utterly contrite Sherlock looked.

“Let's get this over with. You can apologize to Greg when he next comes over.”

Sherlock nodded. “I will. What position?”

“Over the bed.”

Bending forwards so that his pyjama clad bottom stuck in the air, Sherlock rested his hands on the bed. When he was small, he'd been able to bend right over the bed, but due to his height that was no longer possible. In a second, Mycroft yanked down his pyjama bottoms, revealing pale, unmarked skin.

Right. To work.

The spoon, which had been tucked under his arm, could make quite an impression quite quickly. Knowing the full extent of Sherlock's misconduct, he knew that the boy needed something severe, but Mycroft couldn't in his heart of hearts be too harsh.

_Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!_

The smacks came down on Sherlock's soft white bottom and made him jump uncomfortably, his hands clenching around his sheet. Four pinkish circles appeared on the milky skin immediately, for Mycroft had spanked him hard. They both wanted it over with.

_Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!_

Sherlock actually let out a cry of pain at the seventh whack, unused to quite so much vigour being applied with the spoon. His mother knew just how much Sherlock hated the embarrassment factor of a spanking, and so unlike the few occasions when she had had to punish Mycroft, she spanked slowly and deliberately, taking her time.

_Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!_

“Ow, Mycroft!” Sherlock exclaimed, one hand flying back to cover his bottom. In response, Mycroft sharply rapped his knuckles with the spoon, which sent the hand flying back down to the bed. Sherlock's bottom was beginning to turn dusty pink, the hard swats doing their job most efficiently. Mycroft decided to add some variety to the spanking, and so instead of the fully, heavy swats that he had been delivering before, he alternated with twenty light, stinging smacks which made Sherlock grimace. The surface of his bottom was stinging terribly, but could take a lot more spanking.

_Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!_

When Mycroft saw Sherlock's bottom turn a brighter pink, he decided that they were done. The sting would be terrible, but by morning his bottom would be fine, or perhaps just slightly sore in the depths of the muscles.

“That's it.” Mycroft told his brother. Sherlock stood up, quickly yanked up his pyjama bottoms and nodded curtly, giving his brother a sharp nod.

Really, the boy was incorrigible.

 


End file.
